Tree

tree

There's a tree in the forest that's a hundred years old.

Squirrels and birds have died in his arms.

His children, taken by the wind.

He looks at them, as they grow around him.

A little further.

There, in the distance, not hidden in the sand, he sees a mole that's lost it's way.

The sun, not a friend, blinds it's eyes as it seeks the comfort of the earth.

If the tree could only speak, he'd tell him what to do.

If only his branches would reach that far.

He whispers through his leaves 'Fear not, little mole, you will find your way.'

His roots have often felt the live in the ground.

He has felt the bugs, the worms, the seeds that grow underneath.

In summer, spring and autumn, as seasons change.

The different tickles between his toes.

He lives two lives.

The one above the ground, wherein he stands proud and tall.

The one below, invisible and unknown.

Inseparable but never will they meet.

'Fear not, little mole, you will find your way.' 

- Fh., 2000